The Green Eyed Monster
by Shadow131
Summary: (Scarlet Pimpernel fic) My own little Whatif scenario: What if Chauveiln had suceeded in seducing Marguerite, and, more importantly, what if Percy found out about it?
1. Part One

**The Green Eyed Monster **

**A.N.: I'm making up the stuff about Chauvelin having a signet ring, because I need there to be some tip off. This was based off of a line from the movie "Mystery, Alaska." Whoever can pick out the line wins a prize! Well, no, not really, but I might send you something "nifty." I'm intending this to be a one shot, but if I get some good response about it, then I will probably continue it, because I could do so pretty easily. And yes, I am steeling lines from the 1982 movie, though it doesn't take place at Lord Grenvile's ball. It's some random person's ball instead. I'm also quoting from the musical, though I might screw up the lines a bit. I'm only quoting the tiniest bit. I'm probably going to get a lot of people who disagree with the way I portray Chauvelin, and that's fine, because it's how _I_ portray Chauvelin. Mostly, I think he acts like this because of songs from the Concept CD, like "Marguerite." In a nut shell, I think that if he didn't have to blackmail Marguerite, and if she had become his lover again, he would have definitely been side tracked from the republic. If anyone is familiar with Shakespeare's "Sonnet 119," then you'll understand where I'm coming from. I can't remember exactly how it went, but part of it talks about how much stronger love is after it's been remade. So, I figure Chauvelin's going to be far more doting and protective over her if he gets a second shot. I'm also dragging in a few charries from the book, like Andrew Ffoulkes and so on. So, without further ado, the fic! **

She did not know that he was watching her. That was because he was employing the stealth he used as the Scarlet Pimpernel, and he was just as glad. He inwardly sighed as he looked upon her, her lovely strawberry blonde hair tied intricately with a diamond clasp in the back. He'd given her that clasp.

Along with all the other jewelry on her bureau. All gifts from an adoring husband to his beautiful French wife. She was now delicately running her fingers over one with emeralds in it, deciding if she would wear it to the ball tonight or not.

Percy was always giving Marguerite gifts. All England knew – or could at least gossip – about how terrible their marriage was. And no wonder! For the most splendid and talented actress in France had married a complete fop. Of course, she'd only married him for his money, that much was obvious. Which was why she looked so terribly unhappy all the time. The only attention that insufferable dandy paid her was in jewels and furs, and anything her heart desired. But the things that her husband gave her were not what she desired.

Half of England supposed that Sir Percy had some lover, for why else was he always off, away from home, with some new excuse each time? Did Marguerite believe that? He thought it was as likely as not. And some of the young bucks of prominent English society were always trying to sway her, see if they could get the lovely creature to flirt back with them. Of course, they never succeeded.

Finally, he gathered the courage to enter her room. Carefully he walked nearer to her, though she did not notice, for she stared into her mirror with melancholy and loneliness, having decided to wear her emerald necklace.

"How lovely you look tonight, m'dear," he said gently, loud enough for her to hear. He smiled ever so slightly, before affecting that lazy expression in his handsome blue eyes.

Marguerite jumped, not having noticed him, and instantly sat straighter. For a moment, her face glowed, and she turned in her seat, gazing up at him. "How long it has been since you've noticed me at all." She was smiling faintly, and looked terribly happy all of a sudden.

"Lud, madame. A man would have to be blind not to notice. But, it seems I've interrupted you in the middle of thought. So sorry for intruding." And he prepared to leave the room.

Her hand shot out and touched his for a moment, and he stopped. "No wait! Don't go. Here, sit," she said, getting up to bring a chair foreword. "Talk with me for a bit. We never talk, you and I."

"Odd's fish, m'dear! Too much talking and you won't finish getting ready, and it would be terribly unfashionable to be late."

"It won't matter!" she insisted. "Not this one time."

And she pushed her chair aside, reaching out her hand again to hold his. But, in this instant, she accidentally knocked something off of the bureau in her haste to convince her husband to stay.

The little gold thing dropped to the floor with a "clink," and, before Lady Blakeney could stop him, Sir Percy had stooped to pick it up. Holding it up so that the candle light flickered off of it, Blakeney studied it, and his memory flashed; he knew exactly what it was.

_"We have little use for lace in Paris, Sir Percy," Monsieur Chauvelin had protested in the rose garden that afternoon nearly a month ago. Chauvelin had crossed his arms, the sunlight glinting off of a ring on his finger._

_Pretending to be intrigued, Blakeney said "But there's still a use for rings, I see. How marvelous! Mon-sewer, I must see yours." And he had pulled at Chauvelin's hand until the gold signet ring was revealed; it was just an outline of a bird of prey of some sort. Probably a falcon._

_As quickly as he could, Chauvelin drew his hand away, awkwardly rubbing at the gold band. "That's….just a family ring," he said nervously, flashing a look at Marguerite, almost a plea for her to make her husband leave._

_"Ah, yes, of a family seal? I simply must get one of those, shouldn't I, Marguerite?" he asked, turning to his wife. Of course, they didn't know that he already had one – his faithful family seal of the Scarlet Pimpernel._

_She looked back at him mournfully. "Whatever you want, of course. The next time you go on one of your many trips, you should get one."_

_"Indeed! I'll have to go quite soon, in that case!"_

Horrified, Marguerite stared at her husband as he looked at the ring, the candle light flickering off of the form of the falcon. Her breath came in shorter gasps, and her jaw was slightly slack. Finally, she got up the courage to pretend she had no idea what it was.

"What have you found, Sir Percy?" she asked him. "Did I knock an earring off the bureau?"

He felt his insides turn into cold stone as he tightly held the ring. He was in too much shock to do anything. To yell, to cry, to feel anything but this utter despair. He could easily guess how the ring had come to be in his wife's bedroom.

"Not quite, m'dear," he responded, trying hard to affect a careless tone. He was not quite succeeding. "I seem to have found a ring."

"A ring?" she asked. "But the only ring I have is my wedding ring." She held up her hand for him to see. "And I promise you, it never leaves my finger."

"This is not a wedding ring," he responded slowly. Mournfully and distraught, Marguerite let the game drop.

"Percy, I-"

"There's no need for explanations, m'dear. I can easily divine for myself how you came by this, though I am slow witted. No doubt Monsieur Chauvelin was careless. You should tell him to get it tightened, so he won't loose it again."

But Marguerite was not quite willing to let him know the awful truth yet. "No, Percy, you don't understand! I found this out in the garden only a little while ago. He must have dropped it when he was visiting us."

"That was a month ago, Marguerite," responded Blakeney, letting the ring fall back to the bureau. "He would have noticed it was gone by now. If it's a family ring, he would have come back to get it."

"But it must have been then!" she protested, very close to tears now. "He hasn't been back since."

"Marguerite….." said Percy slowly, at a loss for words. He knew she was lying to him, he could feel it. That bitter stab of betrayal.

Now Marguerite was on the verge of tears. Clenching her fists at her sides, she looked up at her tall husband. Saltwater tears hung in her eyes, and she looked up at him with a mixture of contempt and sorrow. Her voice, when she now spoke, was almost defiant, and it grated against his ears. Strongly, she replied "All I have is a notion that being adored by your husband is enough in life. You never touch me!"

She now turned her head away, so that he could not see the tears streaming down her perfect, pale cheeks. Blakeney felt a terrible ache in his heart, and part of him wanted to reassure her that it would be alright, for he could never stand to see a woman cry, but the rest willed him to leave the room. Bowing stiffly, he said "I think we shall leave for the ball in a quarter of an hour, if you need to finish getting ready."

And he left with this terrible pain in his heart, for he knew that it was partly he who drove her to this terrible, terrible betrayal. Maybe if he had done so little as to tell her that he loved her, none of it might have happened. Still, if he'd allowed that to happen, he might have tricked himself into trusting her again, and tonight only proved that that was simply impossible.

Marguerite collapsed back into her chair as he left, covering her face with her hands and trying to quiet her sobs as best she could. Her shoulders shook and she felt utterly and terribly alone. Finally, she ceased her tears and finished making herself look as beautiful as possible, painting the smile of an actress on her face, for she had no smiles within her that were all her own.

…

It had been a long, silent, cold drive to the ball, Sir Percy driving his splendid bay horses as always. The cold night air felt good on Marguerite's hot, tear stained cheeks, and every once in a while she had to dab at her eyes and try and keep her composure.

When they finally arrived, Percy offered her his arm, which she took, and she walked with him until they got inside.

"Presenting Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney."

Marguerite did not want to remain near her husband for another instant. She felt terrible. Seeing Suzanne de Tournay, soon to be the Lady Suzanne Ffoulkes, she excused herself and went to talk with her.

That customary look of devotion and depression in his eyes, Blakeney watched her go, before he was distracted by Lord Antony Dewhurst.

"There you are, Percy! You're later than I expected you would be, and I've been needing to talk with you." Tony now looked rather surprised by the somewhat grey color of his friend's face. "Good God man, what is the matter?"

Percy stepped into his foppish character and said "All that in time. I'm dying for some wine, and to discuss some of the lovely fabric I found in Paris!"

Suzanne was also at a loss as to what had upset Marguerite so. "Please, Marguerite, can't you tell me what's wrong?"

Marguerite clutched the girl's hand. "Suzanne, you are one of my dearest friends in the world, you know that! But please, please don't ask me to tell you what is troubling me. I don't think I could bear to let another person know."

Suzanne looked slightly forlorn. "Of course. Your business is your own, but isn't there anyway I can help?"

"Yes, yes there is!" Marguerite responded quickly. "You can tell me if Citoyen Chauvelin has arrived yet."

Suzanne's lovely features darkened slightly. "Marguerite, why on earth do you want to see that odious creature?"

"Maybe I will tell you soon," promised Marguerite. "But not now, not tonight. Please, Suzanne, it's terribly important! I must know. Where is he?"

"He's standing right behind you," answered a deep, male voice just behind Marguerite's shoulder.

She quickly turned, surprised, to find none other that Citoyen Chauvelin, a slight smile on his face. Bowing stiffly, he took Marguerite's hand and kissed it.

"Lady Blakeney, it is a pleasure to see you, as always." Noticing Suzanne – who actually looked somewhat terrified – he added "And Mademoiselle de Tournay, of course." The child's entire family should have been food for La Guillotine, but it mattered little now. He could not touch her on English soil.

On the other side of the ballroom, both and Andrew and Tony were privately consoling Percy, who was sulking in the corner.

"I've ceased to play the fool and, instead, become one!" he sighed mournfully, taking a sip of wine from his glass. "I drove her away, it was I who did it! She's completely right."

Andrew grimaced. "You mustn't say that, Percy. Really, it will work out all right."

"Yes," agreed Tony. "Marguerite loves you."

"I thought she did, but I'm sure she doesn't. And who could blame her? I've been terrible to her these past months."

Tony and Andrew gave each other a look, not knowing really what to do.

"I was a fool to marry her, the perfect jewel," Blakeney continued morosely. "She was an actress, a thing of fire. You cannot bottle fire, but I tried when I married her. It only makes too much sense that she would grow tired of being bottled, feel confined. She probably wishes for France each and every day."

"No," protested Andrew. "She loves England, and you!"

"I would let her go back, if I didn't think I would die if I let her go," Sir Percy continued mournfully.

"I suggest you do something," said Tony, noticing that Chauvelin was asking Marguerite to dance. "Or else the crafty snake might steal her away, and you won't even have the luxury of having willingly let her go."

"What do you suggest?" Blakeney snarled. "She's far more beautiful that Helen of Troy, to be certain, but I can't wage ten year wars and craft wooden horses. Maybe I should let him steal her away…."

"Stop saying that!" Andrew ordered, getting intensely tired of the subject. "Wake up, man! You've out witted that damned frog eater at every turn, you can't let him win now! Wake up! Think of something!"

And indeed, that did spark something within Sir Percy. Yes, he had won out against Citoyen Chauvelin time and time again. He wouldn't make a habit of loosing, especially if Marguerite were on the line.

In the meanwhile, Marguerite and Chauvelin were absorbed in the dance. When Chauvelin was close enough to speak with her, he said "Something's troubling you. What is the matter?"

"If you think you can be in the library at eleven, then I will tell you. I don't think anyone will be in there."

"I'll be there."

Percy's blue eyes followed them as they weaved and danced across the floor. To control his anger, he clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly, scowling as he watched the pair. "Stop smiling," he thought, mentally ordering Chauvelin, who did, indeed, have a rather superior smile on his face. "Stop dancing with her. Don't touch her hand! What did you say to her? Stop talking with her!" He thought he might go mad with jealousy before the night was over! Finally, the dance ended, but Percy's gaze still followed Marguerite who had separated from Chauvelin.

He noticed that she had become transfixed by something, and, curious, he looked in the same direction; it was a clock, and the time read 10:30. Andrew and Tony desperately tried to divert his attention with cards, food, and drink, but it all did little good. The minutes passed by, and at each and every one of them, he stared over his shoulder to get a look at Marguerite, who, in turn, kept on looking at the clock.

Finally, the bell struck eleven, and Percy noticed that Marguerite was hurrying in the direction of the library. It would not have worried him had he not suddenly realized something: Chauvelin was nowhere in sight.

Andrew anxiously noticed that Percy seemed like he might follow Marguerite. "Percy, do you really think you should-"

"They'll never know I was there," he said in a hushed whisper. "I have every right to know what my wife wishes to speak of."

"But eavesdropping-" protested Tony.

"Hush!" Percy ordered. "I'll be back in a moment."

Tony and Andrew looked at each other with a sigh and shrugged, letting him go, as though they could have done otherwise.

Calmly, and with intense concentration, Blakeney weaved his way in the direction that his lovely wife was heading. Nervously, she entered the room, and, unnoticed, Sir Percy slid against the wall just outside the room, away from anyone's view. If he maneuvered just right, he could see them, though they could not see him, and he could easily overhear their conversation, for the main activity was downstairs, and all was silent in the large room, the fire providing the only necessary light.

As he had guessed, Chauvelin was there, and he smiled, seeing Marguerite, and opened his arms out to her. With a small cry, she rushed into them and he held her for a moment while Percy was privately foaming at the mouth with rage. How dare he even touch her; the sparkling goddess, that daughter of flame, the bright star!

Grey as a ghost, Marguerite pulled away from her lover's embrace, and with a voice that was fighting tears, cried "Oh, Chauvelin, what are we to do? He knows! Mon Dieu, he knows!"

Surprised, Chauvelin blinked. "But who told your husband? One of the servants, or-"

"No, they'd never breathe a word," she dismissed, waving the notion away. "They're British upbringing is to mind their own business and not to say a word about the master's or the mistress'."

"Then who?" asked the Frenchman, thoroughly befuddled.

She turned and gave him a hot glare. "You. Oh, I don't know who is the greatest fool out of the three of us!" she cried.

"Talk sense," Chauvelin ordered.

Thrusting her hand out, she held up his ring. "You were careless enough to drop this on your last visit. Oh, what are we to do?" she cried again.

Chauvelin was ignoring her repetition, and had snatched up the ring. He blinked and smiled in surprise, sliding it back onto his finger. "I was quite afraid I'd lost it completely!" he exclaimed, astounded.

"If only you'd lost it somewhere else!" she wailed mournfully.

Chauvelin now turned his attentions to making sense out of the things she was so upset over, and to soothing her. "There now, hush," he whispered, gently reaching out and pulling her into his arms. In the hall, Percy was fighting to resist the urge to go in there and strangle the foul, tempting snake, and fight for his wife. But that would do little good, if he wanted to know what they would speak of, and he did.

"Oh, he must hate me now, I know he does! How can he not? Who could blame him? Whatever was left of his love for me is quite gone now, I know it, I know it!" Pulling away from him again, she began to sob into her hands. "Oh misery! I am fortune's fool!"

"You must calm down," insisted Chauvelin. "I shall make all well; I shall make you forget, I promise." Tenderly, his arms encircled her and he pulled her back into his embrace, rocking on the balls of his feet and whispering "hush," to try and sooth her.

"No one can make it well!" she protested. "Why did I ever let your smooth words seduce me so?" she asked, trying to dry her tearful eyes.

"You needed someone to take care of you," he reminded gently. "Your husband had ceased to care, you rarely saw your brother; you were all alone in a foreign land with no one to care for you, to understand you. You had no one to hold you, to satisfy your passion, for you are made of passion, Marguerite." He held her tighter and brushed her hair back, kissing her cheek. "You needed me."

"I need you no more," she lied, willing herself to push him away, but finding not the strength. "Go back to France, Chauvelin."

"You wouldn't be crying in my embrace if you didn't need me," he responded, able to tell that she was lying; he knew her moods, her ways, her airs.

"She doesn't need you," Blakeney privately thought. "She has me! Do as she says! Go back to your revolution sickened country, you son of a –"

His train of thought was interrupted when Chauvelin said "Come away with me, there's nothing to hold you here. We will go south; the coast of France, the sea! Think how lovely it would be, just you and I. Between the two of us we have more than enough money to live comfortably for years on end!"

"No, mon amour, you would not be happy, neither would I," Marguerite refused. "Maybe we could have done that once, a long time ago, but no longer."

"Why not?" he exclaimed, turning her around to face him. "What's to hold you here?"

"Let us start with what holds you: The revolution. Would you really leave it willingly? Would you leave it and not have some buried grudge against me for 'making,' you go?"

Chauvelin fumbled. "I….would go, yes, I would. I could not bear to loose you a second time. You," he sighed, holding her tightly. "The fire of my soul, the light of my days. The warm memory on cold nights. You know not how you drive a man to insanity, Marguerite. These past months without you have been more than I can stand!"

"Do not forget, Chauvelin; I asked you to make this decision once before, and you chose politics over love. Have you really changed?" she asked, allowing him to hold her.

"I would go, I would!" he repeated, clutching her to him tightly.

"I could not," she said in all honesty, now pulling away from him. Her gaze was attracted out the window, and tears sprang to her eyes. "As much as I hurt him, betray him, I still love Percy, Chauvelin. I won't stop loving him until the day that I die, though I know he holds no love for me."

"How wrong you are!" Percy's soul cried, taking sudden flight. She loved him? Did she really? His heart began to beat a crazy tattoo, and his palms began to sweat. "You are the only reason life is worth living! I do love you, Marguerite! Fool that I am, that I do not show it! We have lost our faith in each other, but not our love! The faith will be rebuilt, so long as the love stands!" Despite how she had betrayed him, Percy felt more in love with Marguerite than ever. He felt more bliss than he had in at least a month!

"I will not be happy in England without his love, it is true," she continued. "But I'll never be happy anywhere else."

"Forget him!" begged Chauvelin, sitting down on the elegant sofa and pulling her down with him so that she sat with her lover. "He does not care for you! I do! My soul burns for yours! We were made of the same fire, we understand each other. We were meant to be together!"

And he kissed her; tenderly, passionately, he kissed her lips, her cheeks, the lids of her closed blue eyes. His arms encircled her so that he pulled her very close as they kissed, tears streaming down the young woman's cheeks as her lover kissed her, her hands cupping his face.

And though Percy turned his head away, for it was too painful to watch his beloved shower affections on another man, he realized something: In his own, terrible way, Chauvelin _did_ love Marguerite. His soul _did_ burn for hers the way he said. He was done with fancy, charismatic lies to lure her in, to keep the flame of her passion going strong. He was done with manipulating her and hurting her at every turn to prove to her that she could never stop loving and needing him. He was done with tempting and testing to bind her to him. "And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater," as the sonnet goes. All Chauvelin was promising, threatening, giving, taking now was love; that was all. But it was far more than anything Percy had given her as of late.

And in the same way, Marguerite still loved Chauvelin. She loved him for the memories of days and nights in Paris before this Reign of Terror had started. She loved him for being the most solid thing in her world, the only thing that she could hold onto. She loved him for his caresses, and his words – words in French, which was a language she did not often hear.

"I'm tired of sharing you," Chauvelin growled, brushing stray locks of hair from her face. "It is not right; he is your husband, yes, but I am the one who truly loves you, who cares for you."

"What do you know of love?" snarled Percy inside of himself. "You've not the faintest concept of the word, you snake! You do not know what I've suffered at the hands of love, though it is both joys and sorrows."

"Be contented, love," soothed Marguerite. "You must settle for sharing for now." She kissed him again, before resting her head upon his shoulder.

"It makes it so hard to see you, and that is my only joy in staying in England; I miss France."

"And so do I," she responded. "But how much longer will you be staying?"

"A few weeks more, but that is all. No doubt half of the republic is falling apart in my absence."

"Then why do you stay?"

"For the same reasons: The republic."  
"I'm afraid I do not understand."

"I am here, officially, to be looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Now, Marguerite went rigid in his embrace, and slightly startled, he looked down at her as she looked up at him.

"And have you been?"

"Yes, with some success. I have yet to find the man, but I know who a few of his League members are." Carefully, he did not mention that he knew that Marguerite's own brother was one, could be guillotined if Chauvelin didn't keep him attached to a string and carefully watched.

Fearfully, Marguerite asked "And what have you done to these brave and noble men?"

Chauvelin scowled at her, and responded "Had them spied upon, as best as any of my spies can, though that is rather disheartening."

Marguerite brightened. "That is all?"

"As long as they are on English soil, I cannot touch them. Once they reach France, they disappear from right under those incompetent's noses."

Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief, and Chauvelin decided to change the subject. "Really, Marguerite, I am being sincere: Come away with me. I hate knowing that I cannot have you because some fool was lucky enough to marry you."

"Are you jealous?" she teased, gently running a hand down his face and jaw.

"Yes," he growled, taking the delicate and kissing it, his pale eyes looking up at her with a look of longing and adoration. He pulled her very close and whispered to her, almost too quiet for Percy to hear. "Will I see you tonight?" he asked, almost in a begging way.

"Not tonight," she responded. "It will be a long drive back to Richmond, and you probably wouldn't get there until dawn anyway. We'll both be tired."

"That's right, Marguerite, tell the bastard off!" Percy though, privately cheering.

Chauvelin caressed Marguerite's neck, drawing sighs from her lips. "And what about tomorrow night?"

"I do not know," she sighed, exhausted. "That's too far ahead to plan. Wait, yes! Percy told me he wishes to go fishing in Scotland again." She said it with a bitter laugh. "Does he think I'm a fool? I wonder where he is really going? To what lover that he think more wonderful than I?"

Both Percy and Chauvelin struck upon the same idea, but Chauvelin was the one to voice it: "There is no lover more wonderful than you."

Percy mournfully remembered that he had indeed planned to go "fishing in Scotland," and to leave tomorrow. Well, he had a baron to rescue, after all. Priorities, priorities. His blue eyes flashed green with jealousy knowing that his beloved wife – his angel! – would be dallying in the arms of another man come this time tomorrow.

The clock in the hall way struck twelve, startling Percy from his melancholy thoughts.

"I must go, they shall noticed that I have gone," cried Marguerite suddenly. Unwillingly, Percy carefully peeled himself from the wall and snuck down the hall, his mood considerably improved when he remembered what Marguerite herself had said: She loved her husband, and would not leave him. She loved him! Missed him! Now he need only gather the courage to trust her again, to confess his love to her, to confess everything!

"No, stay just a moment longer," begged Chauvelin, tightening his grip around her defensively. Delicately, she pried her lover's arms off.

"I can't," she insisted, kissing him once more before rising.

He kissed her back, and whispered "It will be such a trial to have to wait for a chance to spend time with you."

"Percy will leave by one o'clock, most likely, at the latest. That way he can catch the tied out of Dover….."

"And I shall arrive at your doorstep at 1:01," he promised, finally releasing her to scurry back to the ball.

Already down below was her husband, who had certainly surprised his friends by coming back with a surreal smile upon his face.

Andrew and Tony gave each other a confused look before Andrew finally asked "What on earth happened? We'd quite begun to worry about you. Do you realize you've been gone for an hour?"

"Have I?" he asked calmly. "This is the most wonderful evening I've had since I exchanged vows with Marguerite, even if that did turn out badly. Tonight shall not, however!"

"Alright, tell us; what's so wonderful?" pried Tony, handing Percy his glace.

Grinning, Percy said nothing, and chose not to think about the fact that Marguerite had a lover, just two little things: That she was still in love with him, and that he might soon rebuild his marriage.

**The End**

_(Or possibly not if people want more.)_


	2. Part Two

**The Green Eyed Monster**

**Part Two**

**A.N.: Blame my wonderful fan (whom I am also a fan of), Mewt, for making me continue this :p! Your support is always appreciated! Have an e-cookie on me! hands her an e-cookie**

As improved as Sir Percy's mood was, having overheard his wife's vow of love to him, Marguerite's was not, for she had heard nothing of the kind from her own husband, though his soul had taken flight with his love for her. Instead, she'd received worshiping words from her lover, and while she did love him, this was simply not what she wanted.

Suzanne had finally succeeding in tracking Marguerite down, and found her sitting in a chair, calmly sipping her drink, as though she had not completely disappeared for an hour. As calm an air as she effected, Suzanne could see that she was pale, tired, frazzled. Maybe she was sickly? Maybe she and her husband weren't really estranged, and she was with child? That might explain the odd mood.

"Where have you been!" exclaimed the girl, flying to her dear friend's side. Marguerite was quite taken aback, but rose from the chair, smiling.

"My dear Suzanne, what are you talking off?"

"After you danced with the ambassador-" here she was referring to Chauvelin "you became preoccupied with that clock, and you barely spoke two words to me! It struck eleven, I went off to get you something to drink – oh, you really did look frightful, Marguerite! – and when I came back, you were just gone! I searched all over the place, and you were not to be seen!" Earnestly, Suzanne grasped her friend's hand. "You had me worried sick! Where have you been?" she asked a second time.

Marguerite pretended to be surprised. "Here and there, of course. Caught up in conversations with people; really, Suzanne, I'm quite alright. I haven't disappeared anywhere! I promise I have not even set a single foot outside the house. Not even for a breath of air!" Well, that was true enough, at least. "You mustn't worry yourself so."

Insistently, Suzanne pulled Marguerite away from the chair and spoke with sincerity and concern. "Marguerite, what is the matter? Forgive me for saying it, but you look terrible!"

"Do I?" she asked, placing a delicate hand to her forehead. "Yes, I suppose I haven't quite been myself tonight lately, have I? I assure you, I'm just tired. Though I do have a frightful headache……"

Suzanne's grip on her dearest friend's hand tightened. "Oh, please, Marguerite! You know you can tell me anything, anything at all! I promise I won't get upset, or angry. No matter what, I swear I won't!"

Marguerite stared at Suzanne with surprise. "My dear child, what are you talking about? What is it that you want me to tell you? I am quite alright, I assure you!" She now placed a delicate hand on Suzanne's brow and asked "Now, are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"Of course!" the child cried out impatiently, waving the hand away. "I'm only upset because something's troubling you, and you won't confide it in me!"

The poor child was trying to drag truth from an actress; not an impossible feat, to be sure, but this was the champion of the stage, and it took quite a bit of skill to extract information from her. And sweet Mademoiselle de Tournay simply did not have that skill.

"Really, Marguerite, can't you tell me?" she begged.

Guiltily, Marguerite smiled at her friend. Sighing, she patted Suzanne's hand. "Come to Richmond the day after tomorrow, and – oh, wait, I suppose it is tomorrow now, isn't it? Alright, come to Richmond tomorrow, then, and I promise we'll talk about whatever you want."

"Including what's troubling you?" Suzanne asked warily. Marguerite bit her lower lip and thought. Could she tell Suzanne? If asked, Suzanne wouldn't breathe a word, not even to Andrew. Marguerite would simply have to take a chance and trust her.

"Yes, of course," she promised.

Suzanne relaxed and smiled, sighing. "Alright then. As long as you won't forget."

"I won't," Marguerite reassured.

"Madame, I am afraid that the hour is late, and we must return," a voice behind Marguerite said. Surprised, Marguerite turned to see her husband, his eyes lids half closed in his customary lazy expression. But, to Marguerite's surprise, she did not see hurt and hate in his eyes and on his face. Nay, he was smiling. Marguerite's brow furrowed in confusion and curiosity, but she was distracted when Percy cried "Ah! 'Tis Suzanne you're talking to then, is it? Women's chatter, no doubt. Sorry to steal her away, Mamzelle, but I must be off to Dover in the morning. There's a trout in Scotland that's eluded me these last few trips, but I vow I'll catch him yet!"

Marguerite's heart sank; her husband, the king of fishing. That was not who she wanted to see. She wanted to see the real Percy, the man she fell in love with. Did he even really exist?

"Yes, of course, Sir Percy," Suzanne agreed, releasing her friend's hand. "Au revior, Marguerite. I shall see you tomorrow."

"Yes, goodbye, Suzanne," Marguerite sadly agreed, and took her husband's proffered arm.

…

"Is the weather getting to you, my dear?" Blakeney asked his darling wife as he made sure everything was packed for his "fishing trip to Scotland," the next afternoon. "Gad, but it has been beastly lately, what?"

Mournfully, Marguerite watched him. "Yes, I suppose it has," she agreed. "Percy, must you go?"

Percy pretended to be surprised by the question. "Lud, madame, but if I do not go, that blasted fish will laugh in my face about it. That ruddy thing must be brought to heel!"

"Yes, of course," she sighed.

"Aren't you glad to see me go?" he thought bitterly. "This way you can be with your lover." He'd forgiven Marguerite because she'd admitted that she loved him, but that didn't mean he was any happier with the knowledge that Chauvelin would soon be kissing and holding his lovely wife.

"Will you be back soon this time?" she begged, reaching a hand out to him before quickly drawing it back.

"Can't tell," he said truthfully. "Depends if I catch that fish or not, and how the weather is when we ship out."

"Will you write to me this time?"

"Odd's fish, m'dear, you act as if you lack company entirely! Isn't Mademoiselle de Tournay coming to visit tomorrow?" he asked aloud, and privately thought "and Chauvelin tonight?"

"Yes, but you don't understand how it is when you leave. I'm alone in this large house, with no one to see and no where to go. I miss you when you leave….."

Percy was tempted to sweep her up into his embrace and promise that he'd return safely; she need only keep some faith in him, and soon everything would be well again, but he did not. Too proud, or too cautious, he wasn't sure which.

"What sort of present should I fetch on my return trip?" he asked lightly instead. He mustn't loose sight of things just because Marguerite was standing a few feet behind him.

"Don't bring me back anything!" she cried. "Especially if it slows your return. Just come back home soon, and stay for a long while!"

Percy stiffened. She made it so hard for him to remember that he _needed_ to leave. Finally satisfied with how everything was packed, he turned and kissed her hand gallantly. "Goodbye, m'dear. I'll be back in a week or two. Maybe three if the weather is as ghastly there as it has been here."

She watched him leave, and waited by the window, watching him drive off in the coach. She continued to stare out the window long after he'd completely disappeared, and she sighed with melancholy and sorrow.

She glided out the door and decided to take a walk by the river to try and think of what she would tell Suzanne the next day. She shivered slightly in the cold as she walked by the rocky bank, not knowing what to do. What would she tell Suzanne? The truth, of course, that was the only thing to tell. She knew that Chauvelin quite frightened pretty little Suzanne, and he sometimes frightened Marguerite as well. But she didn't know him the way Marguerite did. Marguerite had seen him sighing and sorrowing, had seen him quite gentle and sweet. She shivered at the memory of how tenderly he'd held her last night, trying to comfort her; how gently he'd kissed her, promising her that he would go away with her if she only asked.

But Marguerite was determined not to ask. In fact, she'd tell Suzanne that. She'd tell her that she must never let Marguerite even vaguely entertain the idea of running off with Chauvelin, for she was frightened that he might one day wear away her resolve to not go. Yes, Suzanne would help keep Marguerite in England. Thus was her loyalty to her dearest friend.

Before Marguerite had the faintest idea of what had just happened, a pair of strong arms had encircled her and drew her back to their owner. She gasped, stiffened, would have screamed, had she not heard the low, soft, amused chuckle in her ear.

"Bonjour, madame. Did I frighten you? I promise that that was not the intended effect."

Instantly she relaxed, breathed a sigh of relief. Chauvelin.

"Surprised me was all," she responded, but did not turn around to see her lover's face.

"I hope it was a pleasant surprise," he purred in her ear, drawing her very close; close enough to smell her perfume, feel the curve of her body against his own.

"Of course," she sighed. "You merely caught me in the middle of thought."

He delicately kissed her soft cheek before asking "And what was it that you were thinking about?" He paused to kiss her again before questioning "Was it me?"

"No, though that may have been a better thought. I was thinking about what I shall tell Suzanne tomorrow."

Now it was Chauvelin's turn to stiffen, and he slowly asked "De Tournay?"

"Oui," Marguerite responded. "Suzanne de Tournay will visit me tomorrow, and I promised her I'd tell her what was the matter."

"And what do you plan to tell her?"

Now she turned in his embrace so that she could lay her tired, heavy head upon her lover's strong chest. "I do not know!" she cried. "But I will tell her of you and I, that is certain."

"Are you sure she can be trusted?" he asked carefully.

Marguerite pulled slightly away, realizing what he was getting at. "I would trust Mademoiselle Suzanne de Tournay with my life. Why?"

Weighing the situation and trying to go with whatever judgment he saw best, Chauvelin swayed from foot to foot. "Nothing. It's just she's…."

"An aristocrat?" Marguerite demanded angrily.

Chauvelin looked Marguerite coldly in the eye, and responded "You said it, not I. All the same, yes, that is correct."

Angrily, Marguerite tore out of her lover's embrace. "Sometimes I really hate the things you say!" she spat, turning her back to him, glowering.

He glared at the back of her red-gold hair and responded "That girl and her entire family were under Republican watch, which means she's guilty of something, if that means anything to you."

"It seems we are all now guilty of something in this terrible age!"

"She would have been fodder for the guillotine were it not for that blasted Scarlet Pimpernel."

"Then God bless the Scarlet Pimpernel!" Marguerite impetuously cried, paling as she realized she might soon regret those words while in Chauvelin's company.

Chauvelin's jaw had tightened, and he was clenching his fists, keeping his anger in check. He ground his teeth while he glared daggers, carefully weighing out what his next sentence – his next move – should be. "I did not come here," he finally spoke "to engage in pointless arguing over Revolutionary acts and ideas, nor to be scolded like a child because I may have insulted an aristo, as guilty as all aristos. You've gone soft!"

"If you mean I'm not blood thirsty enough for this Revolution, then you're right!"

"I came here," he began again, "so that I might spend some pleasurable time and company with the most beautiful star in the sky; the woman I prize above all other women." Slowly, softly, carefully, he stepped closer to her and, very gently, drew her into his embrace, which she could not find the strength to fight. "I came here to be with you, Marguerite. Heaven knows I'm not in England to sight see, nor do I drive miles out of my way to visit your idiot husband!"

Percy! Marguerite had quite forgotten! Oh, but he'd only left moments ago. Chauvelin might have passed him on the road, Percy might have seen him! What if-

She stopped her terrified train of thought, drawing away from him once more, and asked "What time is it?"

Surprised, Chauvelin drew his watch from his pocket and responded "It is a quarter till two, why?"

"So long? It seemed that Percy left mere moments ago."

"When did he leave?"

"A full three quarters of an hour ago, at least. I suppose time flew while I was thinking."

A thought struck Chauvelin, and he asked "Have you been by this river bank the entire time? In this cold?"

"Yes," she responded, lightly brushing it aside.

Quickly, without a moment of protest from Marguerite's red lips, Chauvelin drew her back into his arms, warming her delicate hands in his. "No wonder you are like ice! You must be careful, otherwise you might catch your death of chill! And then what am I to do?"

"You'd manage somehow," she sighed. "We all would." Percy, no doubt, would run to his mistress' embrace, maybe even wed her. Good. Let him be happy. That was all Marguerite had ever wanted, was for the two of them to be happy.

Chauvelin had removed his coat, and was trying to drape it across the shivering girl's shoulders, but Marguerite waved it away. "I'm fine, I really am!"

"Come into the house," Chauvelin insisted. "I'm sure it's much warmer in there. If you wish to remain out here so badly, then at least go in an fetch a shall; then we shall return."

"No, it's fine, we can just go inside."

Reluctantly, he took the coat back, and, Marguerite in arm, he led her away from the river, swollen with winter rain, and back to the warm, dry house.

"Let's go in the Drawing Room," she insisted, once inside. "We can have some wine, and we can talk in there. Besides, it has such a wonderful view of the garden….."

"You are very fond of your rose garden, Lady Blakeney?" he asked, bemused as he handed a servant the black coat that they were impatiently waiting for.

"It just reminds me of things. Of the past….."

"Of Paris?"

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye as she led him down the hall and to the room, pausing to request a bottle of wine from a servant. "Yes, sometimes. Times were simpler then. They were happy."

"Do you remember when we met?"

She sighed, laughed. "That was so very long ago. I do not often think of it now."

"I do," he responded, gazing at her adoringly as she waited for the maid to bring the wine. She did so presently, and Marguerite shut the door after she had gone, so that they might talk in peace. Most of the servants did not speak French, or so she was lead to believe, but they were ever so curious as to what the mistress told the ambassador, probably guessed at words and made up the rest.

She poured them both a glass, taking hers with her, sitting down in a chair, notably not the love seat that Chauvelin had been trying to drop hints for her to sit in. He smirked, bemused. Thus was Citoyenne St. Just; she always required wooing. Instead, he stood near the mantle, by the fire, the glass in his hand.

"Do you remember the summer we spent together? All those cafes we sat in, the speeches we heard….."

"Yes, in the summer of 1790, I remember."

"What glorious days those were! We were caught in the swelling tide of ideals and freedoms. Caught in a storm of a people. We were drunk on the best kind of dreams then….."

Uncomfortable at the mention of the past, Marguerite shifted in her seat. "I was such a foolish child then!"

He watched her carefully, coming over and taking her small hand in his. He delicately kissed the tips of her fingers, running his thumb over the palm. "I was there to guide you in your youth. I was always there for you. And I'm still here, Marguerite."

"It was so easy to fall in love with you then; the dark, mysterious man, so hidden, so passionate. I was just barely an adult, caught up in the mad frenzy of a revolution. To be loved and adored by such a man…You were exciting! Thrilling!"

"Knowing what we do of each other now, do you think you made the right choice?"

"It's a ridiculous question," she replied, drawing her hand away. "What we know of each other now we didn't know then. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe we were happier in our ignorance, our blind passion."

"People do not like to remain blind. They want to see, to know."

"To their discredit, that is true. People are far too curious for their good."

"But those were good days, weren't they?"

"We were so alive then. Bloodied hands and troubled minds have slowly sapped us of the life that was pulsing then. A day was forever, and damn tomorrow!"

He stared down at her lovely, care worn features, and knelt down so that their eyes were level. His wanting gaze matched her desperately unhappy one, and he silently promised the same thing he'd promised the night before: He would make all well, he would make her forget. If only for a little while.

If only for a few short moments, he silently promised to help remind her of the wonderful, passion filled days and nights when Marguerite St. Just was at the height of her glory, the goddess of the stage! When the Republic was still a dream, not a nightmare. When fiery life pulsed through their veins. His strong arms drew her to him, and he kissed her as he pulled her near, sighing into her ear in satisfaction.

"To bed now, I think, my love," he instructed softly. "Let us relax for a little while, and dream. All things will look better in the morning. I promise."

"How can you promise such a thing?" she asked, though she did not pull away from him.

"Have a little faith in me, for I have so much in you."

She relaxed in his arms, content to forget her troubles, her unhappiness, Suzanne's visit on the morrow, her husband – whom she doubted would return soon. It might even be a month before she saw him.

Until his return, Chauvelin was more than willing to keep her company. She'd have to be satisfied with that.

**To Be Continued….**


	3. Part Three

**The Green Eyed Monster**

**Part Three**

**A.N.: Well, long time no update. I've been busy with school, family, and simply other ideas. This story kind of fell to the wayside, but is, in no way, abandoned. I know how I'm going to finish it off, I'm just reluctant to do so. I lack sufficient inertia at the moment. Please forgive me, Messieurs and Mesdames. Also, a very kind reviewer commented that this should belong in the book section under Scarlet Pimpernel. Actually, I'm very strict about the SP stuff I write and where I post it. Anything that hints at a Chauvelin/Marguerite romance of some kind goes under Musical. Pure Percy/Marguerite fluff I put under books. I've not written much of the later, but, if I do say so myself, what I have written is very good.**

**Also, the continuation of this is solely the fault of Hanna. **

The garish light of day filtered into Marguerite Blakeney's window, and she began to reluctantly open her eyes, squinting in the bright light. She noticed that she did not feel the weight, the heat of another body next to her, and quickly awoke, beginning to sit up in bed. It was not that she was not used to going to bed alone, so much that she distinctly remembered going to bed with another person last night. Suffice to say, the person was not her husband.

"Good morning."

The said person was sitting in a chair, fully dressed, and had been watching her sleep. Marguerite took another moment to allow her senses to awaken, and she blinked, yawned, stretched. Chauvelin watched the small morning routine with a somewhat bemused look on his face; he was often in a better than average mood around her.

It was only now that she began to notice that he was dressed already, and she quickly pulled a wrap on, slipping out of bed. He scowled.

"You looked better before."

She rolled her eyes, taking another moment to stretch, before walking to his chair and giving him a good morning kiss. "Thank you for the compliment, my dear, but I felt it necessary. How long have you been up for?"

He paused, thinking. "About three quarters of an hour, I would guess. Mind you, I was reluctant to get up."

Marguerite was now fully awake. "So long? Oh no! Quickly, what time is it!"

Surprised, Chauvelin fumbled for his watch, and responded "A quarter till nine."

"Out! Out quickly!" she suddenly cried, dragging him out of his chair. Pounced upon so quickly, he was having a hard time formulating a defense.

"What?"

"Suzanne will be here in two hours! You've got to get going!"

"But you only just woke up!"

"What has that to do with anything?"

He finally was able to stop her insistent pushing and pulling on his person by drawing her into an embrace. "I'd hoped to spend more time with you than that."

"Later," she refused, wiggling out of his arms and making another attempt to shove him out of her bedroom.

"If you're going to tell Suzanne the truth, what does it matter if I leave or not?"

"Because I want to be the one to tell her, not the suggestive things she'll see if you remain."

He delicately kissed her. "Then let her see."

"Out," she insisted, wrinkling her nose, albeit she was smiling.

"A goodbye kiss," he insisted. She gave him a quick peck, leading him to the door. "A second?"

"Goodbye!" she cried, and shoved him out into the hall way, shutting the door behind him. She could hear him laughing, and listened to his firm step as he walked down the hall, to return to London.

Now only one problem remained to solve for the day: What would she tell Suzanne?

…

Suzanne did arrive in another two hours, sufficiently flustered and worried sick about Marguerite that it made the latter feel terribly guilty for keeping secrets from her. Not that Suzanne was particularly going to like this secret. Her best friend was sleeping with her greatest enemy, had been his lover in Paris when she was Suzanne's age. Suzanne was young, naive, and certainly wasn't going to understand the bitter loneliness and passionate desire that drove her to her decision. Marguerite herself couldn't fully comprehend it. For she did love Percy, still, with all her heart. But she could only take so many rebuffs before picking up and moving on.

But what was the point of moving on when she still was madly in love with him?

Marguerite sat down with Suzanne, had tea brought in, tried to gossip idly like a good hostess, but was quickly cut off by her dear friend.

"Marguerite, please, please, please just tell me what's going on!" the doe eyed girl pleaded, seizing one of the woman's hands. "You have no idea how worried I am about you!"

Marguerite's heart broke, her soul sank; the moment of truth. "Suzanne, I am an having an adulteress affair. Behind Percy's back. Well, at least it was, until the other night, when he…Oh, God, Suzanne!" She broke down all at once, leaving Suzanne to be beside herself with shock. She tried to placate the desolate form with lacy pocket kerchiefs, but found this did little good, and all she could do was flitter to and fro like a bird.

"Oh, please, don't cry, Marguerite. I'm just no good if anyone starts crying," she began to sob. "So you see? Oh, do stop crying, please, Marguerite!" They embraced for a moment in age old familiarity, and waited a moment for their nerves to slow down, their breath to even out.

"I'm sorry, I…I should maintain more control over myself." Marguerite resiliently wiped the last of the tears from her eyes, and looked back to her friend, smiling weakly.

The information all began to sink in for poor Suzanne, who sunk into her chair with a large weight upon her shoulders. "You're…having an affair?" Marguerite nodded. "And Percy knows?" Marguerite nodded again. "Mon Dieu…but with whom, Margot?"

Marguerite's countenance fell, biting her lower lip. "Please don't ask me that."

"Please don't keep secrets from me!"

"Oh, Suzanne, you shall hate me for this, I know it! Percy certainly does, and you must also!"

"No, Marguerite, no! I could never hate you. And Percy worships the ground you walk on!"

"Maybe once. Maybe once a long time ago. But that was a very long time ago. And now I'm loved by people I'm not sure if I really love in return and the only person I want despises me. Suzanne, what am I to do?"

"For starters," the young French girl responded stubbornly, "tell me who it is!"

What to do, what to do?

She muttered something and it took another minute of endless badgering to drag the name from Marguerite's lips: "Chauvelin!" she finally admitted. "Yes, it is! It's him!"

Suzanne stared at her in slack jawed shock, tried to formulate a response; ultimately failed. "You…he…but _why _on earth _him_, Marguerite? Of all the men in the entire world, why would you chose him! He is the most odious fiend to ever walk the planet."

"Please, Suzanne don't say that."

"God forgive me, but I will speak what you must hear, amie!" Suzanne was in a state now, wringing her handkerchief between her delicate hands in a considerable amount of agitation. "He is a black, soulless monster."

"Suzanne-"

"And he has blood on his hands!"

"And so do I!"

Another long pause. "Marguerite?" she whimpered, feeling utterly alone. Where on earth was Andrew when she needed him? But he must never know, never! She had promised, and Suzanne was as good as her word.

"Suzanne, please!" Marguerite begged, taking her hands desperately. "Please, do not defame him in my presence, I beg of you! He's all I have!"

"But Marguerite, you have your brother, me, your husband! A glowing social life, a-"

"I have absolutely nothing, and only partly him! And that is why I have to keep him, because if I send him away then I am utterly alone!"

Suzanne de Tournay closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and squeezed her dearest friend's hands. Finally, she said, "Explain this to me, please."

Marguerite sucked in a gulp of air that did more to burn than strengthen. Still, she had to try. "We met at the storming of the Bastille, Chauvelin and I. And I don't think I remember much of anything after that. Life was a whirlwind, and…well, yes, we were lovers in Paris. But the Revolution was growing out of hand, and sucking Chauvelin in worst of all. It was his obsession, his life, and I felt I had no part in it anymore. So, I left it to him: politics or love. And he chose politics." Marguerite had to pause for a moment, stop to take a still slightly angry breath. Damn him, he chose politics. "And it wasn't long afterwards that I met Percy, and nothing else in the world mattered, and nothing else ever will matter! Not for as long as I live! But Chauvelin, you see, he'd had something of a change of heart, he was trying to get me back. Of course he was too late. He…did some things I think we both regret now, but what was to be done? Please don't ask me how or beg any more detail out of me than that, but yes, it is _my _fault that the entire St. Cyr family is dead. It was _me_, Suzanne."

Suzanne's large brown eyes blinked, the girl's jaw hung slightly. "_You_? Marguerite, I…." Tears were starting to slip down her cheeks and she turned her face away. "Why do you toy with me like this? No, I won't believe it, Marguerite, I've known you for years. It couldn't have possibly been…."

"Forgive me, Suzanne," Marguerite cried, giving her friend's hand a tight squeeze. "God, if I could change places with them now I would. I never meant for any of this, I…" After a moment, the female hysterics were under control, and Suzanne motioned her on. "Well, something happened between Percy and I, and I don't know what. But he became so distant, and I was so lonely….And that was when Chauvelin arrived in England, at my weakest, easy prey to whatever schemes of seductions he had in store. I am a terribly weak person," she choked. "And a very lonely one. And that was why I took Chauvelin back as my lover, and if my solace from it is small, at least I have that. And I must beg you not to take that from me, don't scorn his name, don't attempt to take the clouds from my eyes. I'll die without my fantasies!"

"But, Marguerite!" Suzanne was crying with intense pity. "That's all they are. He adores you, maybe so, but his position in politics has not changed a bit, and how can you be sure he'll chose you the next time you ask?"

"Because I have asked! And he would give it up a thousand times over if it meant keeping me. And that's certainly more than I'll get from Percy."

"But how can you know that?"

"Because Percy despises me, I know he does! He found out what was going on, and now I don't suppose he can stand to look at me. But, God, I love him still, I always will."

"Then you must send Chauvelin away!"

"I can't! What would it prove, anyway? It won't bring Percy back. I had his disdain long before this, but then I didn't even know why. Now I do and it's a hundred times worse. Chauvelin has offered to take me away, and-"

"Marguerite, no! You mustn't, for the love of God! I beg of you, remember that he would have killed me, your loving little Suzanne, if given the chance. Your life in France will not be worth the paper it's printed on!"

"Exactly so. Which is why I tell you all of this in confidence, my darling Suzanne. No matter what I say or do, no matter what brief ideas I might entertain in my foolish brain, you must not, under any circumstances, allow me to go. Pull me back, force me to see reason. I might argue most strongly, but please, Suzanne, if you are as devoted to me as you claim, you will do this one thing for me."

"And gladly! Oh, Marguerite," she sighed, and they wrapped their arms around each other for a moment for comfort's sake. "I still think that I should tell An-"

"No!" Marguerite cried, launching from her friend. "Absolutely no one is to know about this, not a soul. What was spoken here stays here. With who knows now the secret is safe. But should anyone find out if would ruin Percy, and I could never bear to add that to my growing list of sins."

"It would ruin you as well," her friend reminded, but Marguerite shrugged.

"And what difference could that possibly make to my wretched life?"

…

Two nights later, Marguerite was staring out her window and into the pouring rain.

"Marguerite?"

She did not respond, didn't turn around. Chauvelin coughed, stepped into the room. "I, ah, got your note."

"Oh."

"You told de Tournay everything then?"

"Yes, Suzanne knows it all."

After a hesitant moment, Chauvelin just sort of tapped his foot and put his arms behind him. "And?"

"And nothing. She promises to tell no one."

"And can you trust her."

Marguerite turned her head to give him a small glare, and Chauvelin retreated slightly. "Your mood is certainly strange today," he commented. "May I blame it on the weather?"

"Blame it on the world if you like, it doesn't change anything."

He finally came close enough to run fingers down her shoulder and asked in a whisper, "What's wrong?"

She drew in a shaky breath, tried to speak, failed for a moment. "I…I hate all this. All of it. Dieu, why am I not happy, Chauvelin?" She turned and buried herself in his embrace as he awkwardly pet her hair.

"I don't know. I'm rather happy, myself. I have you."

"But only for tonight."

"But do I have your heart?"

"No, I made no pretenses of giving it to you, if you'll remember."

"You did once."

"A very long time ago."

"Was it so very long ago?"

She nodded, breathed in the scent of his clothes, holding onto him for all she could. "Oh yes, it was forever ago."

"Really?" He tilted her head up, kissed her, and then let her go back to burrowing into his coat. "I remember those days so clearly, they must have been yesterday."

"No, it was forever ago that I loved you, and yesterday and today that I'm in love with someone else."

His grip around her tightened in a brief spasm of jealousy. "Yes….but let's not talk about that."

"Hold me tighter." He complied. "What would you like to talk about?"

"I get the feeling that you don't want to talk."

"Not really."

He kissed the top of her hair, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Then let's not talk."

"No, my question is serious – why can't I be happy?"

"Maybe…you just need to find where you belong."

"With you in France?"

"Possibly."

"I don't think so," she shook her head. His grip had unconsciously loosened. "Hold me tighter, Chauvelin." He did so, laying his cheek on the top of her head.

"I love you more than you will ever know, Marguerite St. Just."

"It's Marguerite Blakeney now. When I was St. Just I don't think you really loved me."

"I tried. I tried very hard."

"Not hard enough. You tried to love me, but you didn't know how. Now it's only when you can't have me that you love me."

"Yes, maybe so, but….Well, maybe it's cruel to say, but at least somebody does."

"It is cruel, but I'll accept it."

"So then why can't you love me?"

"Because _I _loved you when you didn't love me. And now I love someone else when they don't love me. It's your turn to love me when I don't love you. Maybe this will change presently, and then Percy will love me."

"But you won't love him?"

"No," she whispered, still clutching him. "No, I will love Percy till I die. And then I will have no need of you, Chauvelin."

"Don't say that, things like that make my heart stop beating for a moment. Say it too often and it might not start back up."

"Yes, and then where would I be?"

"All alone, and I'd hate that."

"Why didn't you quite love me in Paris?"

"I don't know."

"And why do you love me now?"

"I don't know. I wanted you in Paris. I wanted you very badly."

"And I wanted you, but you didn't love me. And I loved you. But I was very young and foolish then. There's no accounting for it in the end, really."

"If I take you back to France, I'll still love you. And then will you love me?"

"No, I don't think so, my dear."

"Well, I suppose you at least want me then?"

"Only to a point. Only to the point that I want to love you, but I can't. Only to the point that I remember loving you, vaguely. I remember wanting you, vaguely. Only to the idea that I am so very lonely, that I can scarcely draw breath without pain, that my broken heart is still beating. And I have to have something to make it better. And I have you. Thank you."

"I really do love you, Marguerite."

She finally looked up at him, eyes slightly red rimmed. "Then don't tell me. Show me." He leaned down to kiss her, running fingers through her hair. She wanted him to show her – so he would.


	4. Part Four

**The Green Eyed Monster**

**Part Four**

The next day, Chauvelin had just been leaving – Marguerite seeing him to the door and all – when who should drive up but Suzanne de Tournay.

The events that followed were anything but pleasant.

Suzanne primly got out of the coach to be met straight on with Chauvelin; nearly collided with him, in point of fact, and the both were so shocked that they merely stood there for some time.

"_Citoyenne _de Tournay."

"_Monsieur_ Chauvelin."

"Um, he was just leaving," Marguerite broke in, brushing past her lover and taking Suzanne's arm. "Weren't you, Citizen?"

He broke glares with Suzanne. "Yes," he replied, giving Marguerite a last, longing look. "Good day, Lady Blakeney," and with that he was off to his own waiting coach – to London.

Marguerite and Suzanne walked in quite thoroughly silent until they were in her sitting room alone together, door shut, when Suzanne simply had to snidely remark, "Did I interrupt your coitus, Marguerite?"

Lady Blakeney turned on her friend like hell fire. "Suzanne, don't you _dare _think to be pre-"

"I'm sorry," she quickly conceded, hating to have her dearest friend's anger in her direction. "That's…not why I came."

"I must say your visit surprises me. Were there more questions you had to ask?"

"No," Suzanne replied, taking out a letter. "I thought to bring you this." She handed the paper to Marguerite, who quickly and cautiously scanned its contents. "It's from Andrew," she added, a small smile on her pretty face at the thought of her love. "Percy's hurt his ankle, he'll be back within the week. I, um, thought you might want to have any gentlemen callers kept clear…."

"Hurt his ankle?" she questioned, holding the letter out from her. "Pray, how does one hurt one's ankle fishing!" She thrust the letter back at Suzanne, despairing again. "He's hiding something from me, something awful…."

"Much like you with him?"

Marguerite wheeled, but Suzanne wasn't being snide. The hurt, patient look in her eyes gave clear notice of her sincerity, and Marguerite inwardly collapsed a little. "I…I didn't mean for it to happen, Suzanne," she insisted softly. "I didn't mean for so many things to happen."

Suzanne took her friend's hand, shook her head. "We never do, these things that happen to us."

…

Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, had never been so glad to see home in all his life, he considered, walking gingerly on his hurt foot and ignoring the pain. That careless little slip had cost him dearly, and it was with great reluctance that he agreed to return home until he was well. And of course fate would have it that the sea voyage would be absolutely awful. "La Manche," as those Frenchies called it, wasn't pretty this time of year. But what was to be done?

And Marguerite had stood waiting for him at the door, putting on a great show of smiling and having people help him to his study – to be left alone to do whatever it was he did in there. They'd spoken barely two words to each other, quick – and hard as he tried he could not extend a more meaningful conversation with her, which, in retrospect, was just as well.

But did she have to be so damn good an actress? Did she have to pretend at affection so well? Or was that all it had ever been, pretend? And so, he shut himself in his study and spread his map before him and began to think, and with any luck, forget.

Armand had proven a useful ally in Paris, but he was getting worried. He was being left thoroughly alone. Much too alone. He was being left so alone that someone must have ordered it so. But there was no possibility that Chauvelin could have known, and for the moment, he was safe. And saving lives along with that.

Should anything happen to the boy, he could never look his wife in the face again – not that he could now, anyway.

And then he'd tried to speak with her at dinner, and she'd asked how his trip had gone.

"But how did you hurt your ankle?"

He paused in-between bites of dinner and with great effort covered it up. He'd sincerely hoped she wouldn't have been curious enough to ask, but of course she was. She always was.

"I slipped, my dear," he replied in his lazy drawl, quickly making himself look as indolent as possible while remaining polite at the dinner table. "Didn't I tell you that?"

"Oh, yes, you did," she replied, eyeing him like a hawk, and he felt distinctly unsettled by it. She couldn't possibly be indulging in subterfuge behind his back…could she? "But you failed to mention how."

"Ah," he corrected. "So I did. Well, you know how it is, water everywhere, slippery rocks and such, me being fool enough not to look where I put my feet. Yes, simply made an ass of myself." Well, that sounded truthful, at any rate; in reality, he'd took a nasty tumble down some stairs. He well remembered the massive headache to follow and the ringing in his ears – not to mention the ankle. "Quite ghastly, I assure you."

"Hm," she replied, still sort of eyeing him before returning to her meal. "I sincerely hope you managed to catch something before your unfortunate accident."

"A little something, madame, yes. But Tony and Andrew had far better luck than I."

"Percy," she finally protested, "what really happened?"

He blinked. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I know there's something you're not telling me. Cards on the table, sir, you know my secret, so let's hear yours. Please," she begged, blue eyes watering a little. "Let us just be honest and mend the wrong."

With a supreme amount of will power, he stood up. "There is no wrong to mend. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do before I retire." And off he walked, and Marguerite desperately watched him go before letting her heavy head fall into her hands. Another round, and she had lost.

What on earth was she to do?

…

The rest of that torturous week remained the same, until Marguerite was sure she'd go mad with the impatience of it all. Couldn't he at least confront her about her infidelity? That would make things so much easier on her burdened conscience. But maybe she deserved the torture, she deserved so much worse for all she'd done.

Things stayed the same – that is, until Chauvelin brazenly arrived one early September day to see Marguerite.

The ambassador had been lead into the Blakeney's parlor to wait – Lady Blakeney had not been given any warning that he was coming – when in walked Sir Percy Blakeney, hunting for a lost book.

"Oh, goodness!" he exclaimed in all his wonderful surprise and playfulness. "'Tis Citizen Chauvelin, what a surprise!" And while inwardly he would have loved to ram the book (if and when he found it) down the gutter snake's throat, he was making a marvelous play at geniality. "I didn't know Margot was expecting company."

"I, uh, was unable to inform Lady Blakeney of my emergency visit before hand," Chauvelin replied, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the man's presence when he had to know what was going on with his wife behind his back. Well, not so behind, anymore, but if not, why wasn't he saying anything? Or even acting upset? Well, he had told Marguerite several times that Percy had never really cared for her…

"Emergency?" Blakeney cried, astonished. "Oh, dear, what's happened?"

"Er, nothing of any prominent importance, Lord Blakeney."

"Oh, no, do tell – I do _so _love gossip." Chauvelin was shifting on his feet when Percy deliciously added, "It wouldn't have anything to do with that ghastly Scarlet Pimpernel fellow, would it?"

Chauvelin nearly fell over. "Wh-what?"

"Yes, he's such a damned nuisance, isn't he? Of course, all England's just wild about his latest adventure. Heard his gang rescued a count…"

"Rumors like that _have _been circulating, yes," Chauvelin snarled, grinding his teeth. Trying to get back on topic, he said, "If Lady Blakeney is unavailable, I could come at a different time, or-"

"Pish posh, man, stay for lunch!"

"I'm sure the citizen has more important matters to attend to, my dear," Marguerite sighed, sweeping into the room and rescuing her lover from further vexations. "And most people consider it common courtesy to be given warning before having visitors barge into their homes," Marguerite scolded, glaring crossly at him – but Chauvelin practically glowed with relief.

The agent took her hand and kissed it by way of an apology. "Forgive my poor manners, Lady Blakeney, the situation seemed rather urgent."

"Ah, _there's _my book!" Blakeney cried, snatching it off a table. Anxious to be gone, he added, "I'll leave you two to your discussions." But once out of the room left firm orders that the doors were to remain open and that they be mildly monitored.

"Are you stark raving mad!" Marguerite cried when she was sure her husband was out of earshot. "Come _here_? With Percy _home_? Do you wish to ruin him?"

"It's on the list," he dryly replied, and she shot him a terrible scowl.

"Let me rephrase – do you wish to ruin me?"

"No, ma belle, how can you ask such a question?"

"Why are you here?" she finally demanded. "You know the dangers."

"I had to see you, Marguerite," he insisted, taking one of her hands. "No doubt _you've _heard about that embarrassing business over le Comte de Bordeaux! He's vanished into thin air, and nobody knows where to find him."

"And what of it?" Marguerite demanded, prudently taking her hand back. "Why should I be notified?"

"It seems," Chauvelin continued, slightly annoyed to have his prize taken from him, "that there was a note left behind, with a small, red flower…"

"A Scarlet Pimpernel!" Marguerite cried, breathlessly, with great excitement, eliciting a scowl from her lover. "Really? And you still haven't caught him?"

"No, but I _will_ catch him, you can make certain of that."

"Oh, of course, my dear."

He was still frowning when he continued on. "I came because I thought I might be able to ask…for your help."

Marguerite stood frozen for several moments. "What?" she finally stuttered. "Help you? Find the Scarlet Pimpernel?" And then she burst out laughing, which hurt Chauvelin's ego severally. "Oh, Chauvelin, what a good joke."

"I'm being deadly serious."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you are."

He caught her arm, forcing her to look him in his pale, yellow eyes, and she froze, suddenly worried. "I meant it, Marguerite. As a friend, as a partner, as a fellow patriot….I'm asking for you to help me."

She blinked several times, quite worried. "But I…I wouldn't know where to start…Nobody knows who he is…No, please, Chauvelin, don't take much stock in my cleverness, all my sensibilities have been drained out of me."

"He has to be an aristocrat, I know that much. And you're the wife of the richest man in England. No one says no to Marguerite Blakeney, and all you have to do is-"

"You're not listening to me," she interrupted desperately. "I absolutely can't. No, not at all. It would go against every fiber I have left in my conscience, and I would be afraid every second of the time – because if I was caught doing something like that…_especially _because I'm the wife of the richest man in England…." She broke away now, trembling at the very idea of it. "Never mind ruining us by adultery, that would be high treason. And the penalty for that," she wheeled on him, "I'm sure you're well aware of."

"And what's the worse treason!" he cried. "That you turn your back on a country you hardly even know…or to turn your back on the people of France?"

"Don't put it in those terms, Chauvelin, I beg of you, I won't-"

"To think, the absolute star of Paris, a common traitor and a-"

"Stop!" The desperate insistence in her voice did give him pause, and she carefully took one of his hands. "I cannot do this thing you ask of me. It is not just the politics of it, it is because I do not want to, please try to understand that. If you respect me then you will respect this decision, for it is _mine_," she begged. "I cannot, I _will not _do this thing you ask of me. It is absolutely and positively impossible. Do you understand that, Chauvelin?" He seemed unhappy with the result, and unimpressed. "Please?" she insisted, batting her big blue eyes. He relented.

Taking her hand and kissing it, he went to get his hat from the servant who had taken it. "I'll try again on a day you're more…compassionately inclined to your nation's needs. Auvoir, ma cherie."

"Goodbye," she replied in her firm English, and watched him go. And once she knew he was gone, she fell into a chair, trembling from head to foot at the very idea of his outrageous proposal. Such words, said in her husband's house! Talk like that could kill in France, and she wasn't so certain it couldn't here. How could he possibly think she would even consider such an idea? Didn't he know her well enough? Mon Dieu…

And Percy! He'd been careless and bold enough to come with Percy at home! She wasn't going to forgive him for that stroke of his damned impertinence, and she would make certain to ram that idea home the next time they spoke.

Why was she so dependent on the agent? Why was she so deathly afraid of being alone? Who could tell? It was an inexplicable mystery – and she did so wish to have the answer.

…

Blakeney was astute enough to pick up on his wife's subdued manner at dinner, more so than it usually was, and it incited him to worry just a bit. Had they broken off the relationship, was that what was upsetting her? Oh, God, let it be….

"And what did the ambassador come to talk to you of this afternoon, my dear?" Lord Blakeney asked congenially and curiously over the soup course. "Anything interesting?"

"He was just giving me news," she replied drearily. "From back home."

"What of?"

She fell back on the current gossip. "It seems the Count of Bordeaux did disappear last week. Some people think he's dead…"

"And what did the citizen think?"

"He doesn't believe it."

"And what do _you _think?"

Marguerite looked up, surprised. When was the last time he'd asked her a question like that? But there he sat, just the same, not looking at her the way he used to, just eating dinner. Maybe he wasn't really interested in what she thought, but if she could make him interested…

"I don't believe it either."

"Hmm…" he replied, resettling his napkin in his lap. "An interesting business, all that, I'm sure."

"I suppose…"

"But never mind, dear," he sighed as the next plates were brought in. "I'm sure Mon-sewer les Comte is perfectly fine. Or…isn't that what you're worried about."

Marguerite's jaw fell slightly agape. Was he accusing her of something? Damn him, how could he just sit there eating while she begged him to actually look at her and speak his mind!

"I do want the count to live," she firmly interceded.

"I'm sure of that."

"Percy, I-"

"You'd best eat, darling. It'll get cold, and that would spoil the whole affair, now wouldn't it?"

**To Be Continued…**


	5. Part Five

**The Green Eyed Monster**

**Part Five**

That was absolutely it. This must now be finished.

Marguerite's patient game of hoping Percy might confront her had worn her out and worn her thin. He'd spoken barely a word to her in the last week alone, and nothing, of course, of her infidelity.

Well, enough! She had not wanted to be unfaithful, he'd driven her to it. But by God, he would drive her back again, or she would cast herself into the river.

"Percy?"

He stopped, rather startled that she'd caught him in the library in those rare moments when they were totally alone; between the super table and his study, with no servants about, and she carefully entered with a trembling figure and shut the door behind her.

And Percy felt he might tremble too.

"La, but what is the matter, my dearest little wife?"

"You say that as if you had another I might have to compete for."

She'd left herself wide open, he opened his mouth to retort – and instantly stopped. No, no, no sense bringing that up.

"Well?" she demanded of his silent statement.

"I'm afraid I simply do not know what to make of such a silly little remark from my clever wife."

"Percy…" she begged, fiddling with the lace on her gown. "We have not been honest with each other." Something in him went cold again. "But you know my past, and I now I beg of you to do the same for me. These trips your taking, it _is _to see another woman, isn't it?"

Percy was utterly and completely flabbergasted. His jaw fell completely open and for several minutes he could not formulate a sentence until he managed a very breathy, "…what?"

"Alright, Percy, Chauvelin was and even now is my lover, but this damn condescension of yours is driving me beyond the brink of madness! Admit your own unfaithfulness and any willingness to change and I will drop Chauvelin like-"

"Then you prove all the greater your unfaithfulness if you'll even abandon the man you're unfaithful with." He nearly clamped his hand over his mouth after saying it, and Marguerite instantly recoiled.

"How dare you accuse me of such-"

"What, infidelity, madame? You do but the same for me! Damn it, Marguerite, how _dare _you bounce in here and start making bloody indictments on my following of our wedding vows when _I would remind you _that I wasn't the one who felt my relationship so deteriorated as to look elsewhere in the first place!"

"But it _has _deteriorated, you cannot deny me that!"

"I can deny you anything I chose or please, I've spine enough for that, but I give you everything I can because I-"

"Because what?" They stopped, for just the moment, sure to quicken the pace again. But for now, they breathed. "Because you love me? Don't even make me dare to hope for that, you've held such emotions over me since last spring with a spitefulness that-"

"I am not spiteful!"

"But you are careful. So careful that you shut out the woman you married in your mad desperation to keep yourself from something I do not understand."

"Do not be so sure it was not you who did the shutting, or your lack of care."

"But you cannot call it a lack of love."

"I'll call it whatever I please, I'm not-"

"Damn you and damn your sense of superiority! This is not an old habit with you, my husband," she begged. "And it is not a quality I loved you for in Paris."

"How dare you even claim you ever felt the emotion, there or otherwise!"

"Why, because it frightens you?"

"No, because it kills me!" he shouted, placing one hand on his chest and grabbing her wrist compulsively with the other, shocking her. "Because I know you're saying it to see me suffer the way I did those six weeks of mad devotion to you while you played me like the harp I was. I intend never to be so melodious to your ear nor anyone else's so long as I have breath in my body."

She was on the verge of tears now, not even trying to pull her wrist from him. "And the blame goes right back to me. I gave myself wholly and completely to you, my _heart_, and it feels just as acutely as yours ever could, and you're the one who refused me then and every night sense. I loved you then, and I hope you burn in hell, because I love you still and no matter what I do I can't stop."

"Do not even begin to-"

"I ask you only to listen! I loved Chauvelin when I was a child in Paris, but I do not love him now, and I stay with him only because I keep on waiting and praying that maybe you may love me back again someday."

"I'm afraid," he dryly snarled, "that it is not very conducive to love to see the woman you married and know she has been and will be taken by another man. Forgive me if I seem old fashion, but I swear to you this, and may God strike me dead if it proves false: _I am not the one who broke the marriage vow_."

"Not outwardly, no." He was bewildered by this sudden cool certainty of hers. "I will take your faith that no other woman's lips have touched your own, you hold the superiority there. Physically, you never committed adultery against me. But you committed it in your soul the moment you banished me from your life, and I _dare _you to be _man _enough to deny it."

They stared at each other for a long moment, Percy releasing her wrist with an abjectness of thought and emotion.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Truly you are too calculating to be who I thought you were, and yet you look so much like my wife."

"The wife you married physically but never to your soul?"

Rage pouring over him into one great passionate moment, he grabbed her and crushed her against him. "Here's for your incessant play on soul!" And he kissed her for the first time since their wedding, but more passionately then he could remember, though not so purely. He held her against him for all the long moments of that kiss, mouth to mouth with a determined ferocity of passion that left her weak kneed and out of breath when he finally let her go a lifetime later.

And Marguerite was the happiest she had been in months, since he'd first said he'd loved her, since the afternoons of blissful innocence they'd spent together. Her eyelids fluttered, her heart was beating a crazy tattoo, and she parted her lips in a desire only to whisper his name and beg him to hold her near, when-

When he let her go.

Quite practically dropped her in fact that it was like smacking into the cold, hard earth when falling from heaven. It knocked the breath and the soul out of her, and she stared with blank and furious puzzlement ahead of her for several moments only to realize he'd swept beyond her with his large step. She wheeled on her feet to see him at the door, and she felt as though she'd rather be damned to the pits of hell then see him walk out that door. Still, practically in tears now, she tried to muster some words, and mostly failed.

"I wish you were dead," she cried to his back at the door, and the silhouette of his tall frame stiffened for a moment, as if to turn back. But it did not, merely waved his hand as if trying to rid himself from something off the tips of his fingers and stalked away in a foul mood.

…

"But…But Marguerite, I don't understand!" Lady Blakeney had practically had herself flown from the manor to Chauvelin's inn room in London in the course of the late morning, early afternoon that same day.

"Chauvelin," she sobbed, burying herself in his arms and crying like a desolate child. "Forget everything I ever told you. Forget that I am married and forget that I said I love Percy. I don't, I can't, not after the things he said and did." She was made dizzy thinking about that kiss, so much so that the feverish ones her lover gave her paled greatly in comparison. "Take me away right now, tonight, where no one will ever find me! Oh God, I wish I was dead!"

"You're not making sense!" he cried, pushing her away for a moment. "Take you away? To France? Well, certainly! This very moment, this very day…if I could."

She stiffened. "Why not today?"

"Marguerite," he pleaded with her, stroking her hands. "There are arrangements to be made, even you must see that. You must pack some clothes, I must as well. You can collect whatever money you have, I may begin arranging affairs here. But I shall tell you this, my beautiful love," he said, scooping her up and placing her oh so very delicately onto a chair while he rushed about the room. "I shall tell you this. We may both make all our arrangements, pretend as nothing out of the ordinary is happening and on…Wednesday, I should think – yes, that's only two nights from now – you deliver me a note saying if you can make yourself free to sail from Dover on that Friday. Yes…yes, that's a good plan. It is organized, isn't it, my wonderful angel?" he cried with sudden excitement, turning to her to find her desolately staring at the floor. "…Marguerite?"

"It's wonderful, Chauvelin. I will send you the note with fair or foul fortune, make no mistake. Pray for everyone concerned it be fair." She looked up at him with red eyes now, close to tears again. "We can keep many hearts from breaking this way, can't we?"

He scooped her up again and this time settled her into his lap, caressing her tear stained cheeks with a tenderness she needed but could not accept.

"Just mind, my beautiful little love, you do not break your own."

…

On Tuesday night, with his ankle healed again, Percy disappeared.

"He's getting emeralds in Rome," she sighed with utter disheartenment when she read the note he'd left her before giving it a tender kiss. After that she crumpled it up and threw it half way across the room to sit in a melancholy silence for long afterwards.

But Marguerite consoled herself with his departure, for it meant there would be no one to stop her own…except Suzanne, whom Marguerite had made swear to keep her from leaving. She would leave no matter what the child did or said, of that she was certain, but a note must be delivered to her letting her at least know of her departure. She had it sent off to the child late Wednesday afternoon, and as quickly as horses had carried her, Suzanne was at the Blakeney's doorstep.

It had, rather naively, surprised Marguerite to see her friend so quickly as she had just sat down to write Chauvelin's own note to let him know she would be available on the appointed date and time.

"What is the meaning of _this_?" Suzanne demanded in a flutter of emotions as she brandished the letter Marguerite had sent her. "I don't understand!"

"My dear little Suzanne," Marguerite began, standing up from her desk.

"No, Marguerite, don't start. If you can convince yourself of leaving, I'd hate to see what your convictions would do to me!" She looked on the verge of tears, the poor little doe eyed girl. "I am here for the fulfillment of my oath, Marguerite, and I say you shall not be leaving this Friday or any one following."

"Nothing you can say will sway me, Suzanne," Marguerite said firmly, taking the agent's promised note and walking towards the door. It put Suzanne in a panic.

"But Percy-" she tried to protest, but was met with a rather vicious "Ha!"

"I don't care if Percy lives or dies and let me assure you he feels the same way about me. I shall liberate him as my last duties as a star struck wife, but I wish to see no more of stars. Merely life as it is, unsullied and probably not beautiful."

Suzanne stood helpless for a moment, unsure of what to say that might make her changer her mind…

No…She didn't need to say anything. This required action!

Without giving it a first or second thought, she had dashed around Marguerite in the door and snatched the letter from her hands. Marguerite cried out in stunned surprise and began to demand it back when Suzanne took off at an unladylike run through the manor. The shocked Marguerite could not get much of a start until the creature was well up the stairs.

"Suzanne de Tournay, I swear I will-"

"Stay safe and alive in England? Very well, give up the chase, and I shall go home."

"No! Give me my letter!"

"Never!" And the chase went on. They were into the hallway to Lord Blakeney's study, and Suzanne had to dodge the mad grabs Marguerite mad for her with a certain desperation. "If I must sit on you till your husband returns home, if I must die to keep you here, then, Marguerite Blakeney, I will do so!"

"Suzanne, I beseech you, make no such wild claims nor impinge upon my happiness any further!"

"'Tis no happiness, however! And I shall feel not the guilt."

However, Marguerite had her cornered now, back against the door, one hand on the handle. And without a second thought, Suzanne turned the knob and flew inside Percy's study. Marguerite gasped and remained transfixed outside for several moments afterwards as no one but Jessup and Percy himself were allowed inside, and it had been a wish she had always respected.

But no! It might contain proof of his own crimes, and if not, she might at least brazenly attempt to wound him in his study where she'd failed in his library.

She entered.

Suzanne had fallen to the floor, out of breath, the letter clenched in her small fist in a crumpled ball. Her face was worn with utter shock, which Marguerite could not for the life of her understand for a moment.

"Good God, Suzanne, what on earth enters your silly head at such times? Are you surprised that I have the courage to enter my husband's study?" Suzanne shook her head, but that was all. "Lord, what are you staring at?" she demanded, and turned full around to the portrait of the late Lord Blakeney, her husband's father, on the wall looking very regal and rich and whatnot. Marguerite still could not understand why Suzanne might….

"Look at his hand!" gasped Suzanne, trembling and close to tears.

Marguerite did so, and in a moment reeled away in utter shock and revulsion.

"Oh, God, it can't be true!"

A signet ring, not unlike the one Percy had discovered in her bedroom from Chauvelin's hand. But this one bore the stamp of a small, star shaped flower….A ring that would have gone only to her husband.

Her husband. The Scarlet Pimpernel. And she bedding with his worst enemy!

She collapsed onto the floor next to her friend in a fit of desperate weeping. "Suzanne, what have I done?"

**To Be Concluded….**


	6. Part Six

**Green Eyed Monster**

**Part Six**

**A.N.: Ending thanks to the production of Pimpernel I saw at the Palmdale Playhouse, whose amazing Chauvelin saved the show from being a wasted trip. Honestly the most tragic thing I think I've ever seen, and put a new spin on everyone's favorite villain for me. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers for their patience over the two years it has taken me to slowly get around to finishing this story. Special thanks to Hanna for never getting off my freaking back. Much love. **

There was a strange and winter sun which lifted the fog off the river and warmed the cold, wet earth around Blakeney Manor, as if it strove to warm and dry everything it touched. In this it was succeeding.

Lady Blakeney herself had flown down the stairs that morning, her husband having returned late in the night, a bright smile on her face, a spring in her step and a song in her heart. She flittered into the dinning room, a mirror to the sun, found her husband sitting there, absorbed in a book, and rushed up, taking the book from his surprised hands and kissing him.

Percy barely had time to react. "What-"

"Good morning!" she smiled at him in a whisper, drawing a chair close to him. "How was your trip?"

He blinked, confused as to why she was pretending so well. "It was-"

"Did you save any aristocrats?"

"Did I _what_?"

She kissed him again and Blakeney tried very hard to gather all his anger and hurt and sarcasm to him – and failed. But she'd cheated on him, she'd…. "Percy," she sighed, looking at him with her beautiful, dark blue eyes. "I love you."

"Marguerite…" he protested, highly confused. Well, after all, wasn't that what she'd said all those months ago to Chauvelin himself? That she still loved him? Wasn't that was Percy had wanted? Hadn't he pledged that so long as their love lived so could they? Well, why not. Now was as good a time as any. "I don't understand," was all he managed.

"You will," his wife promised, taking his hands in hers and still smiling at him. He began to smile too. "Because we are finally going to be together now that you've come back. Together like we should have been before."

After a pause he kissed her hand and then her lips. And he beamed back at her. "But, Marguerite, I can't come back when I never left."

…

"I must say I received your note last Wednesday with rather keen disappointment." The agent was standing behind her chair as they were tucked away at Lord Grenville's ball. He was making Marguerite entirely too nervous, and she was trying to remember how she'd promised Percy she would handle the situation. But such things as these could not be handled. "I was doubly upset when you said that we shouldn't correspond for a little while." Chauvelin shrugged. "But of course you know what's best. I was given the impression that your husband was out of town?"

"I was unsure," Marguerite replied softly, still not looking up at him, "if my communiqués were being monitored or not."

"Well," he replied, dragging a chair over to hers and delicately taking her hand, which she reluctantly gave him, "if he already knows does it really matter?"

"It matters immensely," she assured him.

He shrugged again. "As I said, you know what's best. But now," he whispered, pulling himself closer to her, running a hand across her shoulder and whispering in her ear. "Last week did not work, but everything is set the moment you wish to leave for Paris, my darling Marguerite."

She pushed him slightly away, giving him a look that suggested to him she only didn't want someone walking in on them like that, which was entirely plausible. "Chauvelin," she whimpered, "I don't think I can leave with you to go to France."

He paused a moment, pale eyes looking at her and feeling monstrously hurt and disappointed. "….Oh," was all he eventually said, adjusting his cravat. "Well…"

"Please don't be upset."

"I must say it was terribly cruel of you to get my hopes up like that."

"I didn't mean to," she promised, trying to soften the blow that was still coming to a man who had really been very kind to her these last few months, and one of the only ones to be so.

"Oh, my Margot," he sighed, looking a little heartbroken as he ran a hand along her cheek. "If it was a good idea once then it still is now."

"No, Chauvelin, that's not true, and you know it."

"I see. You've merely lost your courage."

"I've lost something, amour, you can be sure of that."

He cupped her face, still looking rather tragic. "How very unfortunate." He made to kiss her and to his intense surprise she stopped him. "What-"

"Not here," she pleaded. "There's so many people around."

Something in him was sending off an alarm and he was frightened. "Then let them see."

"I don't need that, Chauvelin, I really don't." The klaxon spurred him; he kissed her, pressed her against him, before she succeeded in fighting him off. "I said no." She was glaring hot fire at him and he suddenly clung to her, rather fearful.

"Marguerite, darling, when can I see you again?" he begged her and she stroked his hair and soothed him; no, surely it was alright…He breathed.

"I'm not sure."

"Make it soon!"

"I can't promise that."

"Marguerite!" he pleaded, looking her in the eye, and she lost yet more nerve. "I love you."

They simply looked at each other for a long time before she kissed him sweetly and pulled herself away. "I know."

That wasn't a satisfactory answer, but he'd expected no less. "Of course. I've said it many times before, haven't I?"

"You have."

"And…I know you never said it back, but I know, I _know_ that you love me, too."

She sighed. "No, Chauvelin, I've told you as much time and time again."

"Marguerite, you must love me! You can't do anything else!"

"I can and I do."

"No," he said fiercely, taking her hands again which she briefly tried to pull away; it only made him hold tighter. "No, you see, we had our nights in Paris-"

"And that was all we had!" she whispered, crying a little and putting a hand to his cheek. He fell into silence. "Chauvelin, please, try and understand."

"…You're not sitting here crying merely to say you don't love me. Either that's proof you're deluding yourself or you're harboring some terrible thing inside yourself." She looked down and said nothing. "Tell me," he pleaded. Still she did not respond. He crept up very close to her, whispering and gentle. "For all the times I've ever had the honor of watching you sleep, Marguerite, dearest – _tell me_."

"Chauvelin," she sighed, tears stuck in her eyes. "I don't think we can see each other anymore."

He didn't say anything for a long time, just stared at her. It was almost as if he hadn't heard her at first, and he blinked a few times right before the hot knives went into his heart, the way they had when he'd realized that he'd made the wrong decision in choosing politics over love. Only now he was being brought aware of just how very wrong that choice had been; he hadn't been sacrificing a freedom. He'd been sacrificing _her_. And he'd thought he'd gotten her back again, for a few hours been certain in the knowledge that he could correct such an error and keep her with him forever and make her forget she'd ever thought she'd loved another man.

But here she was. And she was crying.

After a very long time, all he said was, "…what?"

"Now, don't talk, just listen-"

"I don't think I can listen," he interrupted. "Not when you're speaking insensibly." He laughed slightly and felt better, as though he'd never really heard those words at all. "No, no, Marguerite," he smiled. "What a clever way to frighten me. Trying to bind me tighter to you, are you? I promise, you needn't have bothered."

"That's not why!"

He tried to kiss her again and still failed – then he felt a twinge inside himself. "Marguerite…"

"Chauvelin," she whimpered, pulling out her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. The agent tried to hold her close to shush her tears, but she would not have it and he grew nervous and hurt again. "I tried to tell you. I've tried so many times. I love Percy, I don't know how many times I've said it to you-"

"If you loved him, then you wouldn't lie in my arms at night!"

"And what do you think I'm trying to do now! Lead you on? God's sakes, Chauvelin, how much more plain should I make it?"

"Plain enough to drive a knife into my heart?"

"Oh, God, please don't make me do that."

"What you do you do of your own accord," he growled, turning away from her and clutching the mantelpiece, too proud to let her see him cry. How happy he'd been when he'd found her falling into his arms in the garden that fall, how joyful that he'd won her back. It was a sign of his forgiveness, his repentance accepted, and he remembered every night in Paris, every night in London and in Richmond and any other place they could sneak their tryst. How badly did he have to love her before it over-whelmed her and replaced her love for Blakeney? How many times did he have to apologize for his mistakes before they were accepted? Was this a joke? A cruel joke? That had to be it. That _must_ be it, and he turned to her and swiftly grabbed her hands in his. "Marguerite, my love, my _only _love-"

"Chauvelin, don't…"

"You know my affection for you, I can express it in no better way than I already have. I beg of you, do not spurn me now; I am _nothing_ without you, Marguerite, I swear it! I've sacrificed the Republic at your golden alter, for utopia is undesirable without you by my side each night, each day, each breath. Do you understand all that?"

She let her tears slip down her pale cheeks and he hurriedly wiped them away, pained to see them. Sniffling and shaking, she croaked, "I understand, Chauvelin."

"Then please, I _beg_ you, do not send me away now, of all cruel times, not now nor ever."

"Chauvelin…" She took his hands and pushed them away very slowly, looking up at him and shaking her head. He stood, horrified for a moment, just staring at her with the most broken hearted expression Marguerite could bring to mind. Good God, this man had loved her, how could she do this? How could she have turned from Percy to him when he'd loved her, why did she hurt him like that? And now was she not doing the exact same thing in reverse?

_God forgive me for this, for the worst is yet to come, this I know…_

"Please, understand, dearest Chauvelin…."

"I am not your dearest anything," he groaned, turning away and going to his knees by her seat on the sofa. He buried his face in his hands and simply focused on restraining his bitter tears as her musical voice flittered like a torturous whip against his senses.

"You are one of the few people who has given me any comfort since Percy and I became estranged. You are, I am in your debt for that, I always will be. But to continue to pull your leash as though I loved you, to continue to wound Percy as though he were not a cuckold – these are things I, in good conscience, cannot do. I was wrong to ever begin this affair."

"You were wrong to make me love and hope for a better life for us, that is what you were wrong to do."  
"You're right!" she agreed, touching his hair so that he flinched and she sighed heavily. "You're absolutely right, I do so need absolution for that sin of mine. Chauvelin," she whispered, taking his hands from his face and slipping her little one into his. "For the sake that I was once your little Marguerite and hope to always remain your dear friend, forgive me. Call me when you need me, let me be a pillar of support, but do forgive me first."

He stared at the little hand in his for a long time, thumb running over the fingers he'd kissed so often, had run through his hair so often, he'd adored _so often_. "You're really going," he whispered, so shocked, so hurt.

"I'm really going…"

"Huh…" was all he could whisper, trembling with her little hand to hold. "Huh…" He pushed the hand away and she looked up at him with hurt, dark blue eyes while he just looked away, fingers to his temples and shaking head to toe. "You expect me to forgive you, play nice with you, after all that."

"I don't expect anything, and I realize I ask for much, but that is the way things are."

He closed his eyes very tightly, the hurt welling up in his chest so that his fists clenched and he could not see straight. Such awful emotions could rule a man, as to make him blind and ignorant in his love, to make him ignorant that his love made him hate, to make him ignorant he hated that which he loved best.

But he didn't consider most of this his fault.

With all the coldness he'd ever had but never tried to show her, he rounded on Lady Blakeney, eyes very hard – and she grew frightened. "You _do _ask for much," he growled, wanting to go back onto his knees and beg her love back again, but he hurt too much right now for such a game, and she would only spurn him for the millionth time. Such affections could not be spurned so much and expect to survive the coldness of the winter. "But I think I shall ask you for a little bit more."

"Chauvelin," she squeaked, "what-"

"Hush, _oh darling Marguerite_," he snarled, seizing her hand and digging through his pockets for all his spies' notes, throwing them here and there in desperate search for one in particular. "Hush, I know what's best. Ah, here it is!" He thrust one into her tiny palm and she slowly, cautiously unfurled it, eyes scanning it with bloody horror. "Your brother's been arrested, my love, were you aware?"

"God, Armand, no!"

"Quite arrested. Your lover kept him safely out of harms way out of affection for you, but God was he a fool to do so." He snatched the note back so that she gave a short scream, and he marched to the door. "I intend to correct that error now."

"Chauvelin, no!" She launched herself at him, clinging to his arm, and he snarled and tried to pry her off.

"Get off of me, you have no place with me now."

"For the sake of our love-"

"_Our _love, ha! You mock the very name, you treacherous wench. What I felt you never reciprocated and what I could promise you, you were too foolish to accept. Fine, then, Marguerite, I can survive without you once more, but I don't know if you can make do without me. Armand certainly will not."

"No, wait, please!" she pleaded, crying fiercely again as he stood and watched with a sick sort of justification, a slight balm to his very aching wounds. He would never enjoy seeing her cry, he didn't now, but it was something of a triumph for all the time he'd wasted aching over her and loving her to death when she would never love him back for even a moment.

"Wait? What's this, wait?" She nodded her head fiercely and he simply gave her a look from those cold, falcon's eyes. "Wait. The idea. You used me," he snarled at her, and she clung to the very hem of his coat sleeve, pressing her lips to it as he softened and hardened again. "But never again, now I shall use you, Marguerite, for an entirely different purpose."

"What purpose could you have!" she pleaded, hands slipping down to his polished boots, clinging to him with a sad, pathetic desperation melting to any soul that had not loved her quite so well as he had.

"The one I presented to you in the past; the Scarlet Pimpernel. Deny me you, but I shall deny you your brother unless you bring me his identity."

The horror of the situation caught her, and he seemed to notice something in her eyes, noticed there was something in the way she flung herself back from him. He advanced down upon her and she shook her head and sobbed. "I don't know!" wept Lady Blakeney, a wreck at the horror – the even greater horror – that lay beyond her like a vast, consuming ocean, just waiting to swallow her and all the world in. "I don't know!"

"No, naturally you don't. Nobody does. But," he hissed, kneeling to be on her level, pressing his lips against her own and swearing when she pushed him off, "you will, my Marguerite, my former Marguerite. This I promise, you will. Armand will not see the light of another dawn if you don't."

"How could you be so cruel!" she pleaded, scrambling onto the sofa as he waved the incriminating evidence of her brother's guilt – that infamous League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had seduced him and made him a member of their own pack and there was no saving him now. "After all we've gone through, how could you be so cruel?"

"Ask yourself the same question," he snarled, turning to the door. "You know how to get in contact with me, you've done it often enough." His eyes softened on her for just an instant as he beheld her – the weeping little creature – now upon the floor. "If you have a change of heart, mine awaits you at the embassy."

"Do not expect it there."

"I never did. I only prayed for it, such foolish prayers they seem now." He hardened again, spitting on the floor. "The ball tonight, Marguerite, that's the service of friendship I call upon you now. Tonight – and all our debts are paid, my sweet."

He left after that and Marguerite found herself utterly alone once more. The candlelight on the wall mocked her, the shadow cast upon the floor next to her was harsh and seemed too noisy to her taste, even as a silent shadow. The whole world circled in too close and out too wide and she was _very much alone_.

"What am I to do?" she whispered to the wind, and as of yet there was no answer.

But she'd renewed a love even as she lost one – by that promise, there soon would be.

**The End**


End file.
